


You Filled Me Up With Hate

by InkTail



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Body Horror, Daemon Prompto, Dark fic, Gen, MT Prompto, Mind Control, Starscourge, Whump, a heartfelt attempt at blending shock and starscourge, ardyn is a putrid sack of rotting swollen dicks and is just too fun to write, no happy endding, really low key promtio
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-14
Updated: 2018-01-14
Packaged: 2019-03-04 15:47:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13367937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InkTail/pseuds/InkTail
Summary: Reason number one why we don't use starscourge as a band aide; it's multitude of side effects include turning the afflicted into blood thirsty monsters of shadow.





	You Filled Me Up With Hate

The hands are cold.

The armor is heavy and stifling. Noise comes into the ears distorted and hollow. And it’s warm. So warm the body may be moments from combusting. But the hands are so cold. 

The Chancellor does not grant this unit the permissions required to question why that is.

It staggers around a corner. Slowly numbing fingers grasp tightly around the axe shifting in a struggling grip. Feeling retreats as the body burns and cools in pulsing waves that move in time to the _swish-thump_ ing sensation in the chest. It burns. It chills. Burns again. Over and over the waves wash over mind and body. _Swish. Thump._ Cold. _Swish. Thump._ Hot.

But even distracted by the flow and ebb of sensation crawling over corroding nerves, the primary directive is not forgotten. The intruders in the keep are set as priority in this units basic tasks. The directive from the Chancellor to all other models is to halt and restrain; it is the prerogative of this unit only to terminate the threat.

This unit is special, said the Chancellor. That is why it is required to wear the heavy armor. The reason it wields an axe that feels wrong in hands trained for firearms. The reason the Chancellor gave it a powerful gift that pulses and flows over fevered skin and makes the hands cold. He said this unit could engage the intruders in a way that none of the other MT models could.

The Chancellor does not grant this unit the permissions required to question why that is.

It turns another corner. The passages are uniform, each indistinguishable from the last. Were it possible to question its orders, the MT might wonder if it were going in circles. But that is implausible. The MT can not disobey orders. The MT can not be lost. It's Destination is set in the framework of its programming, in the code of the directive, and deeper than that too. In a way the MT does not understand, it knows where to go as if there were a string pulling it along a well known path. The intruders are that way.

The Chancellor's voice croons over distant intercoms, but he is not addressing the MT units under his command and is ignored. The intruders are this way, though the way is through the sector gate. MTs do not have access. But the Chancellor said: this unit is special. An access panel, set atop a pedestal jutting from the floor, accepts the presented codeprint. This MT is allowed into the next sector.

The Destination is close now. 

The Chancellor's voice lures the intruders toward the Destination, just like the string in the MT units code draws it in towards them. Another corner, and another, until the string tugs at an illogical angle, requiring the MT to access a wall hatch with no scanner to present a codeprint to. The hatch leads through the wall onto a grated walkway that shifts under every heavy step the MT takes. The walls here are dark, the ceiling unlit, but the path is straight. The string tugs harder when muffled voices find their way into the ears.

At the end there is a line of light along the floor, tucked up against the wall where another hatch should be. Again there is no access panel to present the codeprint to. The hand holding the axe drops the blade against the grated paneling, an action that produces a concussive clang that reverberates in the small space. The muffled voices stop. The MT clutches tightly at the handle so to not lose grip. The other hand reaches out to search for the pressure key to open the access hatch.

“Gentlemen, I meant what I said when I assured you you'd find your friends again. Why, here comes one now,” the Chancellors honeyed voice purrs overhead when the hatch opens to reveal a surveillance station. Two figures, standing within a ring of fallen MT units, swivel toward the open hatch, their weapons drawn. 

Correction.

One swivels, a blade that rivals the size of the intruders own body materializing in his hands. The other holds a knife and a stick but keeps their back turned to the hatch; though, their head tilts smoothly over a shoulder, a movement that shows he's listening.

The string pulls violently at the body, lurching it forward. The MT is incapable of wanting, it can only do what it's told. Can only follow orders to the best of its functionality. Its orders say it needs to engage and eliminate. But something deeper than the Program shivers at the sight of them and sets a secondary directive that says it needs to be closer to the intruders; these impulses coincide with one another.

“Who..?” The smaller of the intruders starts a question but does not finish before the other interrupts. 

“Another fucking MT,” he spits. There is emotion in those words that tickles deep in the MTs programming, in that space it does not comprehend. The MTs orders demand it attack. The hand with the axe in its grip rises to comply. The cold in the hands drips down along the arms with all the speed of tar.

“Ahh, I do so love a touching reunion,” the intercom croons.

“Shut up!” The big one roars a battle cry, hauling the blade up and around, blocking the falling axe. The shrill _shrrwing_ of grinding metal fills the ears; the swordsman knocks the MT back with the flat side of the blade. It keeps on its feet, trying again to get closer to the intruder. The secondary directive says this is the right thing to do. The heat crawls around under the armor. The axe comes up again.

And again the MT is thrown back, his blade scraping angrily against the chest plate. This time it falls flat against the floor. _Engage_. The MT sits up, climbs upright, grips the axe in one hand. 

A firearm would be easier.

“Iggy! I'm gonna get that axe away from it, and grab it from behind. You're gonna hafta take out the core.”

The MT takes a step forward, and then the big one is there, moving like a liquid to press up against the armored body in a way that makes the secondary directive giddy. His form flows into blocking the airborne axe, twisting both weapons around in an arc until the axe is behind his sword. And then it is the arm in his massive grip instead of the sword, and he’s still swivelling both bodies around dangerously until

The arm snaps.

The axe clatters.

The MT screams.

Heat pulses over the skin.

Both of the arms are grabbed, twisted, and immobilized by the man towering overhead.

The directive screams to engage, but it cannot comply if the arms cannot not respond. Heat pulses over the skin, seeming to radiate entirely from the mangled arm and alternating so rapidly with the chill that the MT doesn't notice the other man approach, doesn't see the hesitancy in his steps through the haze clouding its vision. The pulsing has reached the eyes, colors dance in the periphery. Black and purple, like a bruise. Hot panting breath fogs the visor film faster than the ventilation can clear it.

It wants the faceplate off. But MTs do not want, this is a thing it needs. Clear vision is inherent to accurate work.

“C’mon, Igs, Prompto and Noct are waiting.” The MT struggles, writhing the best it can to escape the iron hold of the big one.

“I've certainly never heard an MT scream like that before,” the other says, toeing closer. 

“If it walks like an MT, and throws axes like an MT, it's a bloody MT. They all scream when they die; this one's impatient.” He speaks with a growl, but the MT can't be scared. MTs don't have feelings like fear and want and curiosity. The proximity of the man quiets the secondary directive set by the deep program; it sits like static under the lungs, unsure what to demand next. Without competition the primary directive rages at the mind, demanding the MT free itself and engage engage engage. “Dead ahead, Ig. Can't miss it.” The MT struggles. The grip on the broken arm tightens, drawing an agonized gasp from within.

The visor clouds again. Without clear vision the MT cannot perform correctly. The big one grunts, when the neck wrenches to the side to scrape hopelessly against the pauldrons. The face plate doesn't budge.

With its vision impaired it cannot satisfy its primary directive.

With the arms immobilized it cannot satisfy its primary directive.

If it cannot satisfy its primary directive, it has failed to follow orders and will be terminated.

Something begins to coil under the lungs, pressing away the static, inhibiting the MTs breathing. Its shallow sobs grow wild, the burning of the body reaches the face and pricks at the eyes until they leak. There's no chill in the hands anymore, the numbness has spread up beyond the bend and the break of the arms. The gift given by the Chancellor crawls along, laying claim to flesh and bone with fiery little footsteps that leave icy prickles, and then nothingness, wherever it goes.

Unable to regulate baseline processes, the MT stops struggling. It concentrates again on the pulsating disease running rampant under the armor. Losing itself to the waves of sensation, gauging the progression with its full attention. Cold. _Gasp._ Hot. _Gasp._

“Iggy… if you can't, hand that dagger over. I can't hold this thing forever.” There's a jostling of arms, twinging the broken one. The big one is shifting the MT so as to free one of his own arms from the tangle between them.

If the other one sighs, the MT doesn't hear it. There's a sensation on the chest plate, something groping and sliding across the metal until it seems to find what it wants. It grasps at the core access port, exploring it with lithe fingers, pressing and prodding at the casing in the armor.

There's a weight like a bracing hand pressing against the chest, and then a pause.

For a moment, neither intruder moves. The MTs breathing seems exaggerated compared to the stillness around it. The MT rides the waves of the Chancellor's disease, panting hot breath that paints the inside of the face plate with condensation.

And then it feels the impact. Feels the way it's pressed back into the solid mass of the big one by a sudden heavy shove, feels the pressure over the core port. There's a sensation of something solid giving way, of something slipping through the plate, and then

The skin spasms around the burning steel piercing into the body, cold and hot and hot and throbbing and _hothothot_. The head falls back, the mouth falls open. The MT disobeys orders. The MT thinks to retreat—but there's nowhere for it to go, pinned against the big one by steel and immobilized by muscle.

Then. Something inside the MT snaps like a rubber band under too much tension. The deepness rushes up to swallow the Program. The Directive fizzles out. The fire burning in his skin washes over him like Leviathans tide waters, crashing against the thrumming pain of the broken arm twisted up behind him. The waves culminate around the white hot sting of the blade being torn from from between his ribs.

This time he doesn't scream. Something shrill and desperate bubbles up from his pierced chest, but there's no air there to get it out. It sits in his throat, heavy and thick and choking. He wheezes around it, gasping at the thin air inside the helmet.

He can't think through the fog in his head. Can't recall where he is, or why, or what it is that's happening.

Everything hurts.

He can't see.

He tries to breathe.

“Tsk tsk tsk tsk,” the Chancellor's voice, chiding over the intercom, makes Prompto's heart stutter anxiously. “If this is how you treat your friends, I may not want to consider myself such any longer.” He catches a shadow of a memory. A hand on his face. Ice in his veins.

Gladio snarls, a disgusted throaty sound. Gladio. Gladio is here. That's good. Gladio will help him. 

Prompto slumps, entrusting his weight to the man behind him when his legs start to feel too weak to hold. But the support he expected crumbles, mangled arms slip from his grasp and Prompto hits the ground in jolting agony. Paralyzed by the shockwaves, he tips sideways and spills, boneless, over the floor. The racket of the armor makes his ears ring, makes his head swim. Why is he wearing armor.

He tries to breathe.

“Let's get going, I don't like how long this is taking,” Gladio's voice sounds far away, hollow. The helmet blocks his ears, the ringing distorts the sound.

Wait, he wants to call. Help! His lips won't make the words.

The gash in his chest weeps burning tears across his ribs. His entire body throbs in time to his fluttering heartbeat; the pulsating heat echoing from head to wound to foot and back again. His breaths turn to intermittent gasps. The fire in his skin is everywhere, scorching from the outside in, crawling, swelling and growing, pressing against the confining armor.

Why would Gladio leave him here like this?

There's static in his hand when he reaches out, blindly grasping toward where he thinks Gladio has gone. It feels like it's been asleep, an icy hot tickle bubbling through his veins makes the whole arm quiver. It hurts to move—but, Gladio. Gladio has to come back, has to help. Why would he leave?

The bubbles of static quickly start to boil, until his veins feel near bursting from the pressure. His head, once full of foggy murk, now fills with steam and tar and an unbearable heat that his thoughts skitter over top of like water over a skillet. He begins to feel floaty, detached. The pulsing thrum of the scourge, once jarring and painful, turns rhythmic, lulling Prompto into sleepy complacence. The pressure in his head swells him like a balloon. Colors dance in the dark, hypnotic and soothing. 

He thinks it'd be okay to close his eyes. For a moment. Until this passes.

He closes his eyes and tries to remember how to breathe.

///

_The man sitting behind the consul, watching the fizzling feeds with his chin in his palm, is no stranger to disappointment. He's used to it, really. It's a natural part of the process, when playing games as long as his. This disappointment is a small one, in the grander scheme._

_A gift, graciously given, discarded. Unopened. A pitiable waste._

_The screen he's watching now dances and distorts, but under the noise, dear Noct has found his way into a loading bay. A finger, hovering over an array of buttons, taps idly at those for the locks on the floors he'll be heading to next. The clever prince will have no trouble working them open. He's proven steadfastly obedient; doing as he's told, following the trail of crumbs Ardyn has scattered for him to pick up._

_Such a good boy._

_Next to Noct, though they truly could not be further away from their liege without falling off the edge of the Keep, two of the prince's loyal retinue take their mission at a snails pace. A pair of screens flickers steadily between the two of them practically crawling down the hall, an empty barrack, and complete static. A twitch of his wrist unlocks one of the many secret hatches set in the walls throughout the Keep. Escape routes, most of them. Contingencies for the workers in case of outbreaks, however useless they proved to be in the end._

_It will be a while yet before they're close, but he utters a bit of encouragement into the microphone all the same, offering the new shortcut as a beacon of hope. Anything to urge them on their way._

 _On another set of screens, the little gunman is still sprawled on the floor. Scourge oozes from the gash across the chest plate of the Magitek suit he was so eager to put on… with just a bit of coercion, that is. His fragile mind had been so fun to play with, with all his little insecurities and hair-trigger emotions. So precious._

_So human._

_And how nice of Ardyn, to send the boy back to the friends who went to such lengths to retrieve him. Wrapped up safe and sound, his hurts tended and healing. Why, young Prompto was practically a_ new man _when Ardyn sent the little soldier marching off._

 _Soon enough he ought to be even newer. Not just a new man, but an entirely new being. It never ceases to delight Ardyn, the anticipation of the change the starscourge works in men. What will he become? The results are never what he expects them to be. The darkness doesn't care_ what _a person is, the change is all in_ how _they succumb to it. The fastest change is always fear, man to monster in the blink of an eye. The willing go more slowly, like those fools Aldercapt and Besithia, who drug the metamorphosis out for days before giving in._

_What lay between primal fear and demented acceptance, that is what intrigued him most. The cocktail of emotion the Scourge fed from differs so vastly from man to child or man to man. What must young Prompto be feeling as the long minutes tick by, what is it that is staving off his transformation? Is it betrayal? Confusion? Does he mourn for himself? He's far enough away now that Ardyns influence must have worn off long ago. Is he back in his own head, and is he aware of what is happening to him? Does he feel alone, or crave relief? Ardyn can only speculate. Can only hope._

_Ah, here now. His attention tunes back in to the boy writhing on the screen. Cocooned in dark glistening slime and a cloud of spores, wrenching in pain, Ardyn plays witness to the final agonizing stages of this curious infection. It’s not long at all before that armored carapace bursts, splitting open like a molting beetle shedding its old, dried skin, for the fresh, soft adult to emerge._

_A delightful metaphor, he thinks, for this new form._

_Though, the monster Prompto has become is no beetle. More bat-like in shape, with a tail like a whip and arms like fans. A gargoyle, then; oh, what fun._

_Still, he thinks, it’s a pity all that effort of his went unappreciated when his guests had the chance, had the warning. But it's no matter now; there's no sense in moping._

_With a twisted grin on his face, Ardyn watches that tail slither away after the traitorous retainers, intermittently tracking its progress when it passes near the cameras. There's time yet for other, more fun games to play with his new pet._

_Humming a victorious diddy, the Chancellor flicks the switches and pokes at buttons, manipulating the game board to his desires._

_Oh, what fun they'll have._

**Author's Note:**

> "Under the knife I surrendered/The innocence yours to consume/You cut it away/And you filled me up with hate/Into the silence you sent me/Into the fire consumed/You thought I'd forget/But it's always in my head..." - Starset "Monster"
> 
> I sat down to write fluff. I really, really did. I dont know? What happened?
> 
> Lets keep this pain train chuggin' and tell me what you see happening next :)}
> 
>  
> 
> [Or come yell at personally me on tumblr.](http://inktail.tumblr.com)


End file.
